


Self-Destruction

by Cracked_Up (Laced_Up)



Category: Batman - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Denial, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, Introspection, POV Harleen Quinzel
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-09 05:55:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,374
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27128881
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Laced_Up/pseuds/Cracked_Up
Summary: Perhaps she always knew it would end up this way.
Relationships: Joker (DCU)/Harleen Quinzel
Kudos: 6





	Self-Destruction

The ground is blurred.

You cough and a smattering of blood paints your chin. It’s warm - uncomfortably so - but you have no strength to wipe it away, so you let it linger, slowly beginning to traverse down your neck as you choke down some of the polluted air surrounding you. You know where you are, but you pretend not to. It’s easier that way.

He’s coming for you, you tell yourself. He’s on his way to come and get you.

But you know he isn’t. The voice in the back of your head tells you this. A smart voice. The echo of a psychiatrist - knowledgeable and sensible – the two things you aren’t. Or so you tell yourself. Because you’d rather be the dim follower you’re known as than admit to yourself that the voice is there. A voice he didn’t have. A voice he would laugh at. A voice that tells you to show mercy and compassion, that compels you to connect with others.

The voice separates you from him.

You despise it. Especially now, as it pleads with you to accept reality and move on to something more productive. But reality isn’t anywhere near as fun as the fantasy world you’ve entrenched yourself in. The world in which you lead by his side, the true mistress of Gotham, respected and cherished by the man you rebuilt your life for.

You hack another series of coughs, but this time the splatter of fluid that hits the ground is less blood and more saliva. Progress. The voice begs to differ. It feels as if your ribs are broken, but you figure if they were, you’d be unable to hold yourself up on all fours like this, so you ignore it. The aftermath of the explosion is still ringing in your ears as you tentatively attempt to crawl a few steps forward, the voice protesting in disgust as your hand lands in the fluid you previously expelled.

But you don’t care. You swear to yourself you don’t care because you know _he_ wouldn’t care if he had done the same. You try to laugh. It comes out more like a strangled bark, but it’s a valiant effort so you keep at it. Despite your distorted laughter reverberating around your skull, it is easily washed away by the pained screams of the injured and the hurried yelling of the rescue team not far from you. The voice is soft and pathetic, crying out in sympathy for those suffering. You scoff internally as you attempt to bite back another cough, only succeeding in allowing the pressure to build up in your airways until it is forced out of you in a painful and uncontrollable fit.

The voice is weak, you reassure yourself. What have these people ever done for you? They are undeserving of pity or compassion; they are the building blocks for this corrupt society that only holds them back.

Besides, to suffer is to live, so they should be grateful to be blessed with pain.

The voice is antagonistic now. It questions why you must push your own misery onto others. Claiming that inflicting agony onto those who’ve done you no wrong will not grant you the gratification you are looking for. The voice is wrong, as it always is. Your life is satisfying, and you are not unfulfilled. You have never once questioned the decisions that led you to this moment.

After all, why would you? Nothing that would lead you closer to him could possibly be wrong.

The ambient noise around you begins to fade away as you continue your strained cackling, forcing yourself to move another aching hand in front of the other before abandoning the task entirely. You listen as the stern voices of the rescue team grow increasingly distant. They’re leaving you here. Apparently, it isn’t even worth taking you to lock you up anymore. Anyone important has already been taken care of, so now they’re leaving you to rot. Just like _he_ did.

You don’t know how long you lie there. Your arms had given out and left you to collapse to the ground, the grotesque solution of blood and saliva you had previously been hovering over soaking into your clothes. What a wretched way to die - uncomfortable and unremarkable. _He_ would never allow himself to be taken out in a manner so unglamorous, lacking any grandiosity whatsoever. It would be shameful for him. But for you, really, it was fitting. Maybe that was why he had planned it this way. A shameful death to compliment your shameful existence.

You’re still laughing. Or maybe you’re crying. You can’t really be sure anymore, but whatever you’re doing, it’s becoming harder as each moment passes. You cough once more, but your body hardly has the energy to even do that anymore, only ejecting a light, barely audible breath. The air around you has only seemed to fill up with increasingly more dust and debris as time progressed, leaving you to unwillingly suck the particles into your lungs as you stubbornly continue your stilted laughter. It feels like your tribute to him. It was your brand of loyalty, to laugh with your very last breath as a tribute to a man who you meant nothing to.

You can understand and accept the voice this time, when it tells you that after your death, you will never enter his mind again – aside, perhaps, from him using your bitter demise as a punchline. A punchline, which was all your existence ever amounted to for him. You and the voice concur that you were a tool, to be manipulated and used whenever the fancy took him.

And yet, you still laugh. You steal all the energy your body has reserved for survival and instead use it to push out burst after burst of choked chuckles, barely recognisable as such by this point. Your lungs are screaming in a desperate attempt to stop the torture, but you have nothing else left. The laughter – fuelled by the reimagined memories of him, the revisionist history written by your mind – is the only thing left for you to cling to as you lie there, physically experiencing the life drain from your very body.

You hear a sudden sound, like an avalanche or a clap of thunder originating from beside your ear. It assaults your senses after the extended period of nothing you’d just experienced, but it’s a jolting reminder of your persisting mortality. There’s something in you that feels hope, something in you that doesn’t _want_ to die. The sound is even louder now, like something heavy being gradually shifted, and a sliver of dull light streaks down your face. It takes a moment before the voice informs you that you must’ve somehow become obstructed from the outside world without ever noticing.

You blink your heavy eyes open as a stranger approaches. It’s him. You know it. He has come to find you, as you had always known he would.

A pair of black boots step into your line of sight, confident and assuring. _No_. Lifting your head, you ignore the waves of pain that dance around your body at the movement. This was not the person you wanted. This was the last person you would ever have wanted to see in this moment. You swear you can almost perceive satisfaction in his eyes as he takes in your tortured state, delighted to witness you in your most desperate hour, alone and unwanted. Without a word, the large man reaches down to you. You manage a scowl, despite your facial muscles’ protests, and disregard the voice. The voice that tells you that he wants to help. The voice that tells you that he, unlike _him_ , is not amused by your anguish.

The voice, once again, is wrong. Because this is the enemy. This person is the reason your love will be forever indifferent towards you because he is too busy aching to destroy the indestructible. So, as the gloved hand approaches, you twist excruciatingly in your position to lunge at it, your teeth proving to be a pitiably useless weapon. The hand retreats.

This time, the voice has nothing to say. It seems even it has given up on you.


End file.
